


Partners in Sabotage

by herrcolonel (presidentwarden)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Combat, Disguise, F/F, Fake Marriage, Gen, Implied Relationships, Infiltration, Sabotage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/herrcolonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two halves of a Zhanna/Pauling fic, loosely inspired by two OTP questions: "Who was the one to propose?" and "Who stressed more over wedding planning?"</p><p>At some point, these two must have been assigned to work together. I suspect once they get past their differences, they'd be a solid team.</p><p>- - -</p><p>“Well, we look like a short man in a suit and a tall woman in a wedding dress. Close enough, don’t you think?” Pauling stands up, hands balled into fists as an attempt to cope with her nervousness. The carpet is dark and gritty beneath her shiny shoes, each stride taking her further across the room until she doubles back to face Zhanna again. “Just in case, do you have your gun?”</p><p>Zhanna makes a dismissive little snort. “I only need fists.”</p><p>“Fists aren’t a ranged weapon.”</p><p>“Fine. Yes, I have it.” Zhanna bends down and hikes up her ruffled skirt to reveal a pistol strapped to her thigh with a garterbelt, one of Scout’s stock model weapons that Zhanna neatly appropriated for her own use during this mission. “You see?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partners in Sabotage

The pair has already donned a number of spectacularly outlandish outfits for the sake of disguise, following the Administrator’s orders as they infiltrate Gray Mann’s corporation one outlet at a time. Gray Gravel, it seems, is a worldwide affair. Depending on the context, it’s typically easy for them to pose as utility workers, scientists, deliverywomen, exotic dancers -- whatever it takes to get the job done. They’ll sneak in with fake ID cards to raid a warehouse, or an office building, or sometimes a secret lair.

Pauling has the benefit of a talented vocal range, dropping or raising her voice at will and donning any number of international or regional accents to conceal her true identity. Makeup seals the deal, and Pauling can go from familiar to unrecognizable in ten minutes flat. Zhanna, less so; the thick Russian dialect is hard to hide, and her appearance is difficult to alter. But she has the benefit of size. No one is ever too willing to question a six-foot Russian with waist-long braids and fists of steel.

 _This_ disguise, though, is a new one for both of them.

Zhanna tugs at the white fabric draped over her shoulders, grumbling with exasperation. Simply finding a gown in her size has been difficult enough, and she and Pauling stayed up late to re-stitch many of its seams, allowing some flexibility in case of unexpected combat. (Zhanna’s initial plan of ripping off the gown and fighting in the nude has been swiftly vetoed by Pauling.) She’s talked Pauling out of the veil, claiming that her hair would never fit beneath, so that’s one less weight off her shoulders, but the gown remains, an unavoidable part of the disguise.

Fortunately, it’s floor length. She refuses to surrender her prized combat boots.

Pauling is hunched over the bathroom mirror in their cheap motel room, standing on a thick briefcase that serves as a makeshift stepstool. Almost a foot shorter and nonthreateningly petite at first glance, she’s clad in a neatly tailored suit that conceals her feminine form amid seams and pinstripes. She’s traded her usual cat-eye glasses for some square tortoiseshell frames, glossy dark hair hidden under an unkempt brown wig that sticks up in a cowlick. She hasn’t bothered with dyeing her eyebrows -- too much trouble for a disguise that will last an hour at most - but the glasses make the thin black brows less noticeable. A false mustache neatly attached with spirit gum completes the look, sealing her metamorphosis from sophisticated female secretary to tiny, scruffy-looking little secret agent.

Zhanna stands in the doorframe, blocking the bathroom’s exit -- a hulking silhouette tempered by soft tulle. Hands on her hips, her demanding gaze sweeps over Pauling, contemplating the disguise. “You are sure this will work?”

“Of course it’ll work.” Pauling kneels to fetch the briefcase off the tile floor, and frowns, resisting the urge to scratch her upper lip. The mustache is already starting to itch unpleasantly, but if she rips it off now, she’ll never be able to stick it on straight again. “It’s absolutely foolproof.”

“This is good news, because we are working with fools.”

“You’re telling _me.”_ Pauling moves out of the room as Zhanna steps aside, dumping the briefcase onto the worn mattress. One thread on the sleeve of her suit is starting to unravel; she rips it out with neat precision, then sits herself down on the mattress, curling her lip. She’s checked the room for bedbugs already, but she can’t get rid of her natural aversion to places like this. Dingy, lowbrow, filthy little underpriced dens. When keeping a low profile, there’s no room for luxury, but Pauling does have standards for herself. “One more time. Let’s go over it.”

 _“Da.”_ Zhanna nods thoughtfully, watching the range of expressions that’s flashing across Pauling’s face. She’d give a lot to read her thoughts, but she knows better than to ask. “Six o’clock, wedding party arrives at Gray Gravel office for the reception.”

“Right.” Pauling’s tone is nothing but strict business. “Five-thirty, we intercept them and take their places. Tie them up and ship them back to Helen.”

“Good. What then?”

“Sometime between six-thirty and six forty-five, we trigger the place’s alarm system and get into the data center in the midst of the panic. Rip out their database, bring it back home to Dell, and we’re good to go.”

“You are sure we will not be recognized?”

“Gray’s never seen these agents before, and neither has anybody else. They work as a unit, alone. They demand to be paid in gold; it’s untraceable. That should give you an idea of how they operate.”

“I understand.” Zhanna takes a seat on the bed beside Pauling, the cheap mattress sagging beneath their combined mass. One strong arm settles around Pauling’s small waist, and Pauling leans gently against her companion’s broad shoulder, listening to her thickly accented voice. Zhanna’s brow furrows in doubt as she speaks, pondering the mysteries of their situation. It’s not their most difficult mission, but it is undoubtedly the most strange. “Unbelievable that Gray will go to this trouble just to stop your Administrator.”

“He wants the Australium. No two ways all about it. It all comes down to money and power.” Pauling has a tendency to lean more towards the cynical side of things. Pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose -- they’re empty glass lenses, but she wears contacts, so it isn’t impacting her vision too badly -- she sits forward on the bed, chin in her hands. “We get that hard drive, we have a comprehensive list of all of Gray’s bases in America. We need it. End of story.”

“I understand. Well -- do we match the physical descriptions of these…” Zhanna’s lip curls in a slight sneer. “Agents?” She’s reluctant to apply the term; they do not fight honorably. They are nobody’s agent. “Somehow I do not think so.”

“Well, we look like a short man in a suit and a tall woman in a wedding dress. Close enough, don’t you think?” Pauling stands up, hands balled into fists as an attempt to cope with her nervousness. The carpet is dark and gritty beneath her shiny shoes, each stride taking her further across the room until she doubles back to face Zhanna again. “Just in case, do you have your gun?”

Zhanna makes a dismissive little snort. “I only need fists.”

“Fists aren’t a ranged weapon.”

“Fine. Yes, I have it.” Zhanna bends down and hikes up her ruffled skirt to reveal a pistol strapped to her thigh with a garterbelt, one of Scout’s stock model weapons that Zhanna neatly appropriated for her own use during this mission. “You see?”

Pauling eyes her for just a second too long before the layers of white fabric settle back into place. Then she glances off at the far wall, gaze deliberately unfocused in calculated disinterest. “I do.”

Zhanna smirks, dark brows arching upward. Pauling’s charade does not fool her. “If the mission goes wrong I will just do -- this.” And she gives another slight upwards tug at the skirt, then drops it, suddenly at ease in the clumsy layers of satin. “It works well enough against you.”

“Don’t you dare. We don’t need to make ourselves any more noticeable than we already are.” But a twinkle of mischief shines bright in Pauling’s eyes, and she reaches up to adjust the glasses on the bridge of her nose, a purely aesthetic gesture for emphasis. “I’ve got one more thing. Come here.”

Zhanna rises from the bed, lifting the weighty briefcase like it’s feather-light. Within a few strides, she’s joined Pauling where she waits beside the door, cast into silhouette by a cheap lamp that periodically flickers in the corner. Zhanna drops the briefcase, which lands with a thud; Pauling winces, but is distracted by a light tap on her shoulder from the large Russian. “Yes? What do you have?”

“Here.” Pauling digs into her suit pocket, hunting around for a tiny envelope. She rips it open and lets its contents fall out, two metal rings that cascade into her palm and glint in the dim light.

Zhanna gives her nothing but raised eyebrows and lips pursed in a thin line, waiting.

“We’re supposed to be newly married. The disguise doesn’t work otherwise.” As always, Pauling is professionally motivated, or so it seems. She offers the more ornate of the rings to Zhanna, who holds it up, turning it in her fingertips and squinting at it. “Is this real?”

“Goodness, no. My budget doesn’t allow for that.”

“Hm.” Zhanna shrugs, muscular shoulders rising and falling smoothly. Then she offers her ring and her left hand to Pauling, expectantly. “It is good enough for me. Put it on me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

One hand comes to rest on Zhanna’s broad hip. “Surely in America brides are not expected to put their own wedding rings on themselves?”

Pauling actually cracks a smile. Hastily, and a bit clumsily, she takes hold of Zhanna’s hand and slides the ring onto her finger, sending up a silent prayer of gratitude that she selected the correct size to fit. “Is this better?”

“Very much.” Zhanna preens a little, brushing her hair back and tucking a wayward strand behind her ear. She has her hair done up in a simple braid, but a few bits and pieces have escaped from the untamable mane, falling free around her shoulders. Without being asked, she grasps Pauling’s hand too, sliding the simple metal band around her small finger. “There. Now we are perfect.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” Pauling folds her hands, getting used to the strange feeling of a ring on her finger. She wears gloves during most missions, to avoid leaving fingerprints and for an added bit of professionalism, but something makes her leave her gloves in her pocket this time, walking into the trap bare-handed.

She catches Zhanna’s eye, and offers a smile.

\- - -

The mission is a spectacular success, merely by virtue of being a spectacle.

The wide range of traps, diversions, and oddities stashed in the briefcase, skillfully designed by Engineer to make Gray’s base systems go haywire, have done the trick. While Zhanna fends off the security guards -- one woman in a torn wedding dress and combat boots against a squadron of trained forces; for them, it’s an unfair fight -- Pauling ducks down to the building’s lower level, rooting around the technology wing until she finds what she needs. She rips out the prized hard drive wholesale, shoves it down the front of her jacket, and _runs._

The sound of kicking, punching, and screaming alerts her to Zhanna’s location.

Halfway through Pauling sheds her wig, ripping off the sorry-looking lump of brown hair and throwing it behind her as she bolts down the hallway. Her hair is still done up in a neat bun, and she leaves it that way, but the glasses are slipping off her nose, too, so the instant someone runs out of a doorway to chase her, she takes the useless frames off and flings them at her attacker, hitting him square in the forehead. He reels, staggers, and falls, slipping on the discarded wig, and Pauling laughs under her breath.

Maybe she should wear her contact lenses more often.

A few more hallways later, dodging and weaving to avoid a small pack of office workers that fruitlessly chase her, she finds Zhanna at the base of a flight of stairs, gleefully punching her way through wave after wave of security guards. Apparently, the money that Gray Mann saved by using robotic forces to fight the mercenaries has been invested in real guards for his corporation. Zhanna is now surrounded by a pile of unconscious bodies, with no signs of slowing down in her conquest. She jams a fistful of knocked-out teeth into a pocket in the dress and waves at her companion, who’s still bolting at top speed to evade her pursuers, light clicking footsteps pattering along the corridor. “Miss Pauling! Come and join me!”

“Not now! We gotta run! Gray’s on the way.” Or if he isn’t, he will be shortly. Pauling skids to a halt at the steep steps, then takes in a deep breath, gulping hard, and braces herself for a jump. “Catch!”

Zhanna kicks a guard out of the way and opens her arms as Pauling takes a leap, flying off the top of the stairs and whipping out her tranquilizer gun midair. The small fighter twists and contorts herself, aiming backwards, and fires a few well-placed darts; her opponents drop to the floor limply, one after the next, lying prone on the linoleum floor.

Seconds later, she falls neatly into Zhanna’s arms, and is greeted with a wide, enthusiastic smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Wonderful!”

Pauling wraps one arm around Zhanna’s shoulder, firing the gun at a few more guards approaching around the corner. Her jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed. “Praise me later, just _run!”_

Zhanna doesn’t question these instructions. Heavy footsteps pounding down the hallway, she carries Pauling with ease while the secretary fires, and reloads, and fires again -- a two-person combat team that dispatches the remaining security forces with alarmingly fine aim. Bodies thud to the floor, bones crack on impact, heaps of inert guards pile up, and all with no trace other than a tiny syringe lodged in the neck of each.

The base is built like a toddler’s maze: seemingly confusing at first, but inherently simplistic, with obvious patterns. Zhanna’s memory is good, and after a few close scrapes through motion-activated traps that almost leave them both dangling from a net in the ceiling, she’s able to bring them back to the entry point: an elaborate drawbridge, complete with a moat to match. A _moat._

“One second.” Pauling pulls a small polaroid camera from her pocket and snaps a picture of the burning fortress as Zhanna bolts across the shaky bridge, memorializing the moat in a blurry snapshot that’ll be displayed on the Mann Co bulletin board for years to come. Then she shoves the camera back into the pocket of her tattered tweed blazer, now marred with a few scrapes and burns from her earlier combat.

“Helen wants proof we did the job.” Pauling’s voice shakes a little with each footstep, steadying again when Zhanna finally slows to a halt and sets her back on her feet. The smaller woman catches her breath, trembling; her companion’s barely winded, despite the long run, and places her hands on her hips, triumphant. When Pauling explains, Zhanna nods, comprehending.

Somewhere, behind them, there’s an explosion in the base. Neither woman bothers to glance back at it.

“Well done.” Pauling wipes her forehead with her sleeve, pushing a few long strands out of her face. Zhanna is gleaming with sweat from the exertion, positively luminous in the ripped wedding dress, but Pauling just looks bedraggled and drained. Nevertheless, there’s a victorious grin on her face as she brandishes the small hard drive, wires dangling loose and torn, hardware sticking out here and there. “I’ve got it right here--”

The sound of splashing from the moat below makes Pauling flinch, and then start in alarm, moving to scurry across the remainder of the bridge. “Tell you what, I’ll show you later.” She’s heard rumors of alligators, and knowing Gray Mann’s temperament and his flair for the dramatic, she’s inclined to believe the possibility. Zhanna follows suit, thick black hair flying loose behind her. The bridge shakes a little beneath powerful strides, offering unsteady footing. When one of Pauling’s heels gets caught in the wooden slats, the Russian scoops her up and pulls her free. The solution is unceremonious but effective.

Seconds before they disappear into the woods and bushes, Pauling whips out the camera again and points it at herself, catching Zhanna in the frame alongside her. They’re both sweaty and grime-caked and badly in need of a shower, but Zhanna flashes a bright charming grin, and Pauling manages an exhausted smile, weary and worn-out but pleased with the outcome of the jaunty through Gray Mann’s lair. The flash triggers, bathing them in light for a split second, and then they’re on their way, vanishing into a thicket that hides them from the searching spotlights and the alarm bells that echo across the moat.

Pauling can’t help but fall to her knees once they’re on safe ground, adding a layer of mud stain to her already ripped and disgusting trousers. Face pressed into her hands, she gasps for breath, letting some of the stress seep away. The hostages, Gray’s real spies, are close by in the forest, bound and gagged to expert precision by Zhanna. But rather than pursue her trapped prey, the Russian huntress stalks in a circle around Pauling, territorial as ever. She waits for her partner to recover, filling her role as teammate and confidant for the small fearsome woman who’s busy catching her breath.

With her endurance recovered, Pauling’s back on her feet in moments, once-shiny shoes sinking into the slimy muck as she picks through the damp forest and makes a path. Janet Pauling is barely past her thirtieth birthday and has already seen the worst that six continents have to offer, all in the service of Team Fortress Industries; a bit of mud won’t faze her now. Zhanna falls into step behind her, dressed in a sleek combat suit and freed of the wedding dress, which now lies discarded beneath a tree like a ghostly white carcass, a bizarre prize for some curious outdoorsman to discover.

But the mud is thick, and the forest is dark, and when Zhanna offers a hand to Pauling, guiding her companion through the maze of branches and shrubs that surround the outskirts of Gray Gravel’s corporate castle -- well, she can’t help but say yes, small fingers intertwining with Zhanna’s strong ones.

Work like this is easier with a partner.


End file.
